


Valar Morghulis

by aqhrodites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Attempted Murder, Canon Rewrite, Everyone Is Alive, Human Scott McCall, Multi, Murder, Psychic Abilities, Psychic!Hayden, Sassy Kira, Shapeshifting, Urban Fantasy, and another who may have the ability to bring the dead to life., one who is able to predict it, one whose screams bring death, scott isn't bitten, the only pairing as of yet is Allison/Scott, there are three girls in the school which nothing seems to go right around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-02 14:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10946865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: Valor Morghulis: all men must die. What most people think it means is that "Death is inevitable". Though they are actually acknowledging the finality of death. The reply is Valar Dohaeris, implying that though death will come for all, every person must serve their purpose in life before dying.Liam, Malia, and Isaac are perpetrators of a string of murderers. Or, that is what the town of Beacon Hills is increasingly assuming. However, this completely diverges the attention to the true evil that surrounds them.Hayden begins to hear voices and to suspect that something more may be surrounding the bodies popping up across town. She also begins to believe that she may be right, and that there is something deadlier, more dangerous as the center cause. Especially when meeting a suspicious girl who may be the actual prime suspect in the murders. The only problem is that right after, she disappears and Hayden is the only one who remembers her, this girl vanishing in thin air after Lydia's party goes awry.In this reimagine, Scott isn't bitten, Kira is more extroverted, no one has died or left, Harley is a reoccurring character, and Lydia develops an interest for blood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is a re-imagine on the series with a psychic Hayden and a what-if if everyone was in the same year, everyone alive, and things were more sinister. Allison, Kira, Malia, Liam, Isaac, Mason and Hayden, Scott and Stiles, Tracy, Jackson, Theo all go to Beacon Hills. This is just a what-if if Hayden was a psychic and Scott hadn't gotten bitten, at least not as early in the show.**
> 
> **This takes place in the beginning of the series where it's Stiles, Scott, Kira, and Hayden who go looking for the body of Laura Hale, and in things take a far DARKER turn. Here, Liam, Malia, and Isaac are the outcasts at school that the town is convinced are responsible for the deaths appearing around town. But after claims of frightening beasts spring up, Hayden starts having visions, and after a meeting with the town's brooding loner, she and the others begin thinking that nothing here is impossible. Especially when there are three girls in the school which nothing seems to go right around, one whose screams bring death, one who is able to predict it, and another who may have the ability to bring the dead to life.**
> 
> **This story can go on reader's choice where you tell me what you want to happen.**

* * *

 

_Valor Morghulis: all men must die. What most people think it means is that "Death is inevitable". However, people fail to see a deeper underlying message._

_When someone says Valar Morghulis, they are acknowledging the finality of death. And then the other person replies with Valar Dohaeris, implying that though death will come for all, every man/woman must serve their purpose in life before dying._

 

* * *

 

This was absolutely stupid, _reckless_ , blood-rushing, and way too risky— _that's why they were doing it_ , bounding down a dark road to the outskirts of Beacon Hills in search for a girl that had reportedly went missing weeks ago and had just been found. The car that was rushing down the road was a typical navy blue 1976 Jeep CJ5, filled with passengers that were as giddy as its engine.

"We're _seriously_ doing this?" A boy dressed in a large, red hoodie murmurs, unintended for the driver to hear. The door slam of the passenger seems to echo the forest, the sound too loud in the near quiet night. His name was Scott and the driver went by the nickname Stiles—two of those on this expedition.

The three others pile out from the backseat—a tall boy and two girls, one wearing a baseball cap—eagerly rushing to open the trunk and remove the three shovels that they were "borrowing" for the night.

" _You're_ the one that's always bitchin' that nothing happens in this town." Stiles clicks on a flashlight he had brought with him, pointing the light to their path as the other three join beside them. "Besides, we can't let Hayden down and leave her with a bad impression."

Long, thin pine were scattered out in front of them, bare and white due to the moon baring overhead. The ragtag group stares off into the darkness ahead, noticing the eerie quiet and an owl up ahead and a rustle of leaves of a scampering critter and the sound of their own breaths billowing out in small puffs in front of them.

Stiles wasn't the only one given a flashlight; Kira and Donovan clicked on the two extra flashlights, now illuminating the dead forest with three points of yellow light.

"We'll all have a bad impression when we're arrested and trailed," Donovan grumbles, jaw clenching. The shovel was slung over both of his shoulders and rests behind his neck.

Hayden nudges his side, her height maybe reaching the bridge of his nose. "Aww, don't be a buzzkill, Donovan," she smiles, teasing. Actually, she was also excited about this and Donovan was the only one having second thoughts. "This could be fun. Besides, you can always go back and wait for us back in the car like a _big boy_."

Kira was the girl who sported the baseball cap over her long, slick, ebony ponytail. " _Yeah Donovan_ ," she mocks him, and her tongue darts out in play.

He sneers and mumbles again under his breath, this time too low to hear about afraid to know their definition of fun.

"See? She agrees." Stiles turned to Scott, commenting about Hayden's recklessness. "See, her—I like her."

Stiles was the one to initiate the first step forward, beginning their journey and leading them toward fortuity. He tugs at his leather jacket securely, light sweeping the trees around them. It was dark, but not too dark, and was really the only thing that kept them from turning back.

Scott falters behind, the other three following their unappointed ring leader, and he shuffles nervously, eventually making a small sprint forward to flank Stiles. "I just wanted to get a good night's sleep before practice tomorrow," he admits to the cold air. His hands that were still snug in his hoodie's single front pocket raises innocently, showing that he had been honest.

"Right! Because sitting on the bench is such a grueling effort." Stiles was known for being the most sarcastic in the group.

Behind them, Kira rolled her eyes. Her flashlight caught a small pile of leaves at the base of a tree.

"No, because I'm playing this year," Scott corrects. "In fact, I'm making first line."

"Really?" Stiles chuckles. "Well if you want to. Though you've been slacking on your passes and actually _missing the goal_. Let's hope that Coach doesn't wring you out like a towel again this time."

The ragtag team had been assembled merely an hour ago by the young Stilinski—Stiles. His father had gone to respond to a dispatch about the missing girl and Stiles had grabbed his keys and phoned his best friend when his father was pulling out of the driveway. There had been a little convincing, and after indirectly being mistaken for a burglar, he had Scott in the passenger seat and Kira Yukimura on his cell's receiving end.

Kira was the only one who was as hyperactive and nosey as Stiles and in a way, was his third in command—after Scott, of course.

From her, Donovan, followed by Hayden, had been picked up, both who left unnoticed.

The five of them were the only ones available for the midnight run and weren't swamped with homework. Five teens in the woods at night equipped with shovels and flashlights, ready to dig up any age-old mysteries and curses ready for them in the shadows.

At Hayden's side, Donovan shivers.

"Just out of curiosity, what half of the body are we looking for?" Scott rubs his hands together inside the pocket of his sweater, wishing he had brought along a jacket like the rest of them. If only Stiles hadn't rushed him so...

"Huh..." Stiles falters for a moment. "I didn't think about that..."

"And, uh, what if whoever killed the body is still out here?"

"Also something I didn't think about."

Behind them, Hayden smacks her teeth loudly.

The trees cast long shadows like cold fingers reaching beneath the bright moonlight, wanting to trip them and suffocate them in the pitch blackness of their shadows. Their branches were bare and wiry, just another sign of the oncoming winter season.

Kira quickens to close the small distance between her and their self-appointed guide. "You sure this isn't some stunt to get your dad's attention?" she snaps. She was the only one bold enough to ask flat-out.

Stiles gave a dry, sarcastic bark of laughter. "You're funny. And, no, it's not."

She shifts the shovel to her other hand, and she tosses her head when a few loose hair strands strayed in her face. She scoffs, the tension between them already brewing.

"Do you even know how far they said the body was?" Hayden butts in, hoping to defuse the oncoming slaught of arguing.

Stiles sucks his lip. "Uh...over—over here."

"I hope you're right." Kira complains that a twig managed to get inside her boot.

Stiles led the four to a small, steep hill that Kira didn't take fondly of. They were told that it was right above it and they had to climb—that was when Kira had been ready to turn back—and Stiles switches to holding his flashlight between his teeth. The rest soon follow, more reluctantly.

"It's comforting to know you planned this out with your usual attention to detail," Scott remarks as he grabbed and tests a thick root to hold for balance.

Stiles grunts around his flashlight, "I know!"

The small hill would overlook the location Stiles heard while eavesdropping his father's phone call earlier that night. Kira and Donovan were closely behind while Scott brought up the rear, pausing to lean against the curved trunk of a tree for breath.

"Maybe the severe asthmatic should be the one holding the flashlight, huh?" He calls, shaking his inhaler before breathing a dose.

"I can't believe I let you convince me anyway." Kira found a hold on a rock jutting out from the fallen leaves and hoists herself up to the top of the steep hill.

Stiles took her hand as she made it. "Oh don't complain. You were the _main one_ excited and wanting to go."

She rolls her eyes. "So?"

"Why do we have to bring shovels?" Hayden breaths, forcing herself to a whisper in the dark.

Behind them, Scott gave a severe cough. Hayden asks him if he was alright, that she could offer help. He insists that he could manage and watches her crawl up the last few steps ahead to join the others. He took another heave and continues.

Stiles pauses, his head rolling around to the girl climbing up behind him. "Because _how else_ are we going to get to a dead body without digging it up?"

"Uh, just leave it there. I'm not trying to go to jail for you all." That was Kira.

"Well then you should have thought of that before agreeing to come."

" _I_ didn't ask," Hayden adds. The shuffling behind her told that Scott had joined them now.

"There is no _asking_ with Stiles," Scott breathes, hands shoving in his pockets and pulled his sweater tight in a failing attempt to hide from the autumn wind. "He's a ball of pure energy and without us he'd get into everything."

Hayden chuckles.

When Scott stood beside them at the top of the hill, the four were watching something off in the distance but all he could make out were foggy, dark figures, and a point of light coming from each one. Suddenly, Stiles' arm dart out in a signal to stop.

"Get down! Get down!"

"What is it?" Scott asks, ignoring the cue as all but him drop to the ground.

Kira hisses, "Scott, get down!"

"It's the police!" Donovan screams in a whisper.

This time Scott listens and drop to his stomach like a sack. The three of their flashlights were hurriedly clicked off by clumsy fingers and shovels had been left on he ground. A dead tree root arches over their heads at forehead level.

Out in the distance, search lights broke the faint forest haze. Several flashlights slowly turned to the direction of the teens' hiding spot and it couldn't be made out that they were in fact the police, but no one wanted to test the odds. There were several lights, surely outnumbering the teens, whoever they were; there was no way Stiles and the others could escape if they were caught.

On the ground beside Hayden, Donovan was muttering under his breath. His hands clasp together and his voice was a whisper too low to make out but move the repetitive lip sync of a prayer. Hayden's eyes widened, watching him.

All five of them held their breath, Stiles repeating in a breathless wish for the lights to not turn their way. And all five's hearts drop as his wish was not granted and the seven points of yellow gather and swivel in their direction, steadily growing as the police march forward.

"Aw crap. _Run_!"

The rest were still in shock for those few, quick moments but it was Kira, tugging Hayden along by the elbow, who were the next to disappear after Stiles sprints into the trees. Donovan was not far behind, and Scott inhales another dose before going after them.

In the distance, cadaver dogs tug against their leashes, barks echoing and sending chills through the teens running through the trees. Their scents had been caught and surely it was only a matter of time until they were tracked and captured. The lights of the policemen turn in the direction of the sounds of their feet crunching the dead leaves. Kira curses under her breath and quickens; Hayden did her best to keep up; Donovan quickly passes them, bringing up second place behind Stiles only because of his head start.

They ran, the autumn air nipping at their nose and burning their lungs. The leaves seem to want to give them away, the crunching and rustling way too loud in the quiet night, and the barks of the dogs only seem to come closer.

Their shovels had been forgotten on the ground far back at the side of the hill.

The police's lights weren't giving and the teens sprint at full speed now, hearts in their throats and driven purely on adrenaline and the need to not be incarcerated as a criminal and sent to Juvi. Five pairs of large, panicked eyes glancing over every few seconds to see the shining flashlights nearing all too quickly. The dogs were getting louder too, and Hayden could imagine it all too clearly their foaming, snapping jaws and felt herself panicking.

_Ah god, why didn't Stiles tell them that the police were probably going to be here?!_

Kira jumps over a jutting rock in her path and almost lost her footing, sliding in the leaves and catching her balance just in time.

Hayden tries to keep up as quickly as possible, but she wasn't a runner and had never gone through with track when her mother placed her in it when she was younger. Everyone easily passes her by and she fell back to fifth place, though luckily still keeping up.

"God I hate running!" she breathes.

The shadows—the police—in the distance looked like monsters emerging from the fog, the flashlights like low, glowing eyes that were going to capture and swallow them whole at any moment.

The teens' hearts pumped frantically and breaths came out like billowed smoke in the chilly air. They didn't know where they were going but they were all following Stiles, the moon their only light to keep them hairs away from running into a tree.

Hayden glances over and for a moment, the shadowed forms _did_ look like monsters. She knew it weren't true—she knew it weren't _true_ —but her body didn't seem to and the next thing she knew, she was dropping to the ground as her legs gave out and her body shook uncontrollably. Her mind was playing tricks on her, twisting her vision to portray the police as fog creatures whose bright, yellow eyes were upon her in seconds, smoke hands reaching out and grabbing for her soul. Her body curled into itself on the ground, shaking.

Scott calls after his friend in the lead. "Stiles? Stiles?"

Kira is trailing after Scott who had fallen behind Donovan, and was the closest to Hayden. She was the one who heard the girl fall. "Stiles! Guys!" Kira skids to a halt. "Scott!"

"Kira—!" Scott's red sweater was too noticeable in the dark, whirling around to catch her sprinting back and the fallen body of their friend in the dead leaves. He saw Kira drop to her knees and cradle Hayden in her lap when he finally moved.

"Help me!"

Hayden was shaking in her arms. With one hand, Kira removes her scarf and rolls it into a gag for the girl. She isn't entirely sure what to do during a seizure, but she read somewhere to make a gag out of something soft—and this definitely looked like a seizure.

At rapid speed, Scott was beside her. The girl had suddenly calmed but still couldn't walk.

"Is that a seizure?" he asks, eyes wide. He had never witnessed one either and was as educated about it as Kira—which was very little.

"I don't know," she panics. "Are they supposed to last this quick?"

Looking down at Hayden between them, it would appear as if she had just fallen asleep. She was no longer shaking but very subtly, like she had a chill.

The dogs' barking charge them back into action. The police would be on them any minute. Hayden's feet dragging across the ground as the two ran.

The trailing noises of scampering feet were heard but the sources were out of sight. Kira and Scott worry that they had been left behind.

"Stiles, wait up! Stiles!" Scott hisses into the night, hoping their friend was close enough to hear—but let's face it, that was unlikely.

Kira slung one of Hayden's arms around her neck and tried to bring the girl along. They couldn't stay. Reluctantly, Scott slings Hayden's other arm around his shoulders, and the two stand, carrying their friend between.

As they walk, Scott feels something fall out of is pocket and he panics. He isn't able to stop and look, praying it isn't his inhaler or wallet.

Several feet ahead, Donovan huffes aloud that he's too young to go to jail. Stiles, still sprinting at top speed, doesn't pay the other thought nor does he hear. Both boys were focusing on running for their lives, so when Stiles gave a sudden falter and turn to the left, running _toward_ the police lights following them, Donovan barely caught himself from following.

Donovan's feet slide in the leaves. "What the hell are you doing?!" He hisses, grabbing his hair, horrified, and feet coming to a stop. He spun once, searching for a new place to hide, a new path.

Stiles was too far to hear by now. Donovan barely made out his awkward hand motions to stay away as he ran to the yellow lights, to keep running.

"Stiles!" Donovan hisses instead, falling back.

He watches Stiles approach slow down as more yards came between them. In the distance, Donovan watches the boy then flails, dropping to the ground in shock as a black dog is snapping at his heels. A policewoman—Donovan could tell by the high voice—calmed the dog, and when its head turn towards the trees, the she's following, Donovan dartes behind a tree and the wood is pressing through his thin jacket and it hurts.

The police were just a few yards away and Donovan was _just_ out of range of their flashlights.

From Scott and Kira's view far behind, the spaced lights indicate that the the search party had broken up. The two continue ahead in the direction Stiles and Donovan disappeared to.

From the lights shining in Stiles' eyes came a familiar voice: "Stop, stop, hold on! This little delinquent belongs to me." An older man in an deputy's uniform approach the head of the search group. He had thinning hair and worry lines etched into his forehead from countless times he's had to pull his son out of trouble.

Stiles did his best to shield his eyes from the flashlights. "Hey~ Dad, how you doin'...?"

"So...do you listen to all my phone calls?" A thin sheet of moisture had formed across his brow, no doubtly from the stress of this night.

Donovan pokes his head out from behind his tree and noticing slight slump to the figure's posture, he immediately knew who the man was Stiles' father.

"No! ...Well not the boring ones," Stiles admits.

Donovan breathes over and over in a whisper that this was a bad idea and regrets ever coming.

Mr. Stilinski looks around. "Where's your usual partner in crime?"

"Who, Scott? Scott's home. Said he...wanted to get a good night's sleep before practice tomorrow." Stiles struggles to catch his breath, still exhilarated from his sprint. "It's just me...uh..."

His father spun his flashlight to the nearby trees, searching himself.

The teen's back was rigid against the thin, cold tree trunks and too many feet away, Scott and Kira had no idea.

Yards away, Scott looks at his friend struggling beside him. He suggests they turn around an head back, maybe Stiles could meet them back at his Jeep. Kira doesn't respond.

"Scott, you're out there? Scott?" Mr. Stilinski calls into the woods.

Donovan closes his eyes, hoping the man wouldn't come.

The officer's answer was the ambience of the forest and seeing that his son had no evidence to go against his claim, clicks off his light. "Well young man," he places a hand on the back of Stiles' neck, his vice uncomfortably tight; Stiles winces. "You and I are going to have a conversation about the _invasion_ of _privacy_."

Donovan waits until their footsteps faded to bang his head back against the tree, cursing under his breath. Why did he even come, he wonders to himself. Maybe it had been ego, a chance to prove himself and not have Kira mock him in front of the new girl; maybe it was boredom that night—it was definitely ego.

The search team turn back as Stilinski led his son away, and Donovan pushes off from the tree, adrenaline still coursing through him and making him shake.

Damn, if Stiles had been taken to his car, how was _he_ going to get back?

_Where was Scott and Kira?_

Donovan remembers hearing them fall back that felt like many hours ago. Still with wary nerve and remnants of the rush fading, he backtrackes, hoping to find them.

_What if they had already made it back to Stiles' Jeep? Hadn't there been something that happened with Hayden?_

Donovan looks around cautiously. The trees seeming to reach up into the heavens, fear exaggerating their height and warping the woods into a maze. The teenager pulls his hood up. It didn't provide protection—like a _jacket_ ever could if something attacks—but it did bring a sense of comfort. He made sure to watch his surroundings, head whipping all ways.

He didn't know how long he wondered the woods that night. All the trees look the same and when a bird flutters overhead, he just about jumps out of his skin.

Donovan came to a stop in what looked like a small clearing in the trees that reminded him of something seen out of a crime show episode. This would have been the perfect place to drop off a body by a sloppy criminal, he jokes to himself but instead, it made him uneasy. The teen pulls his jacket tighter around himself and squinting, he swears that he sees something move in the distance, and reaching for his cellphone to call the others, he rubs it off to just being his imagination, his fear finally taking full hold of him.

That is, until a mob of deer come charging through the trees.

Donovan falls and flips on his back and curls into a fetal position. The beasts trample the ground around him with enough force to shatter bone upon impact, and for a moment he fears that one would land on his shoulder—or his stomach—or his face. He almost couldn't believe it when it was finally over as if in an instance like it had began, and the thundering fade in the distance. Donovan is practically shaking in his trainers and uses a nearby tree to help himself stand. He doesn't notice the sting in his shoulder right away but when he does— _the pain_ —is excruciating! He keeps his cry to a minimum and bit his lip. When he touches his shoulder with a finger, shooting, red hot knives of pain explode beneath his skin.

Something is broken.

A small cry of pain slips past his tight lips.

He had to take a moment to breath, and uses his uninjured arm to retrieve his cellphone from his back pocket. A feeling of dread sets like a rock when he presses the ON button and sees the crack across the screen.

"Oh, great."

His body is shaking from shock and adrenaline and he flecks the fingers of his broken arm. Donovan tries to angle his phone in his hand to swipe and unlock, but his shaking and already weakened fingers causes it to fall to the ground.

It takes a few moments to locate it again—the moon is a terrible lighting when there are so many trees blocking the sky—and when he does, he feels something soft and cold brush against the back of his hand. When he finally unlocks his phone and activates the flashlight app, he has to do a double take.

Well, he found the half of the body Stiles and the search team had been looking for. And her wide, _dead eyes_ were _staring right back at him_.

The shock rocks him back on his heals. Donovan doesn't see the boulder right behind him, and gravity forces his weight to careen backwards and down another hill.

He _really_ shouldn't have come.

He misses hitting his head on a thick, broken branch by less than a foot. And being the constantly nervous one he was, checks his pulse in three areas, winces when pain returns to his shoulder, and very, very slowly stands.

Beacon Hills has always just been a nice, quiet town that nothing too out if the ordinary happens—just like any other place. Donovan and many others—Stiles and Scott—have grown up here, have been to the beach that's a few miles away, too many times to count. They know the mall inside and out, experienced those boring campfires by local wannabe and amateur scout masters, have grown accustomed to livng with its critters all their lives. So when he locks eyes with a immense, four-legged creature, the first thought that runs through his mind is that he's never seen a wolf that large and what his father would do to scare it away.

…Or was it a bear…?

And then he sees its glowing eyes.

And his heart in his throat, realizes that that was no _wolf_.

Donovan stumbles backward and almost trips for a second time. He caught his balance just in time to see the creature—definitely _not a wolf_ —rising on its hind legs. It was definitely _not_ a wolf and far, far taller than him.

It raised its head to the pitch black sky and gives a guttural, echoing scream that sounds too human and frightens the boy to the core, and then locks its gaze with the thin, pale boy once more.

He's too afraid to move.

In an instant, the creature pounces, knocking him down and watches his small head bounce on a boulder.

It smacks its jaws, hot breath billowing out in a thick cloud in the cool air.

The beast leans closer, jaws wide and breath putrid, and took a whiff of its prey. Donovan doesn't move and the creature took in his steadily breathing. It opened its jaws—and for a moment, it had been about to eat him—why should the boy surivive; he's useless! The creature decides at the last minute to leave him be, to let the actual wolves have a go at him. It shut its jaw and steps back, mourning over the waste of the boy it just made. It trots off into the distance; minutes later, the beast is nowhere to be seen.

. **_. . . ._**

Stiles is driving back down the road they had came from with furrowing brows and mutterings of how he was going to get back for the others when Kira thought that was a good time to finally sit up and announce that they were already in the backseat of the Jeep.

If there had been other cars that night, there would have been a nasty pileup.

"For the love of _Christ_ , Kira!" Stiles straightens back on the road.

"Don't look at _me_ —keep driving!"

"Are you the only one in here? Oh god..." His knuckles were loosening around the wheel but not by much.

"No, Scott's here."

Stiles glances in the rearview mirror to see his other friend sitting on the backseat, red hood up.

"What're we going to do about Hayden?" Scott was panicking.

"What's wrong with Hayden? ...Hey, where's Donovan?" Stiles glances back once more.

The three in the back had made it back before Mr. Stilinski and spread the unconscious girl in their lap. When Stiles and his father arrived, they hid under a small covering.

"He didn't respond to my message. I guess he got caught. Don't stop now! Hayden's had a seizure. We need to get her back to her house."

Stiles' neck snaps around once more.

Kira explains that she had already left a message on Donovan's phone to meet them at the Jeep. With Scott's input, she then explained their plan: Hayden had been at home all this time—they all had been. Kira had already let their phones run the length of a conversation, so if their phones were searched, it be concluded that she and Hayden had been on the phone when she had a seizure.

Now, the hard part: they needed to get Hayden home and back in her bed, which they would then call her home phone and Stiles banging on the front door. Alone, Stiles would lie that Kira called him to hurry and come over, and affter Hayden's parents sped her away to the hospital, they would arrive later as if just being picked up from home.

Stiles stares at her incredulously. Scott had gotten over the shock and was no longer stunned.

"Ever heard of the show How To Get Away With Murder? They always go back and cover all their steps," she explains, deadpan.

"What about Donovan?" Scott asks.

"I'll just keep calling him like I was trying to get a hold of him for Hayden. We'll just conclude that he got caught, for now. Later, we can go look for him, after Hayden's at the hospital."

Stiles' jaw still hung open. "I am officially frightened of you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Line breaks are supposed to indicate "The Next Day" or "Several Days Later" break.**

 

* * *

 

The stench of aseptic, bleach, and a faint whiff of sickness hit her before the steady beeping of a monitor or the walls reflecting the glaring white fluorescents, lurching her stomach and bringing Hayden's eyes to open wide.

She isn't at home, she saw, and she is neither back in the woods, and it takes her a minute for her vision to adjust. And when she does, she panics.

Hayden sees all too late the crisp, paper-like hospital gown she is dressed in and is already in a frenzy when the heart monitor starts beeping crazily and her mother is awakening in the chair beside her bed, and Hayden s fumbling, rushing to untangle from the sickly white sheets that someone probably _died_ in— _oh god!_ —because she shouldn't be here— _what if they arrest her?_ —and she had duties to do, about Stiles and the others and—and there is Lydia; she had to get out because Lydia expected her at school; Hayden couldn't miss school—when her mother stands and the IV chords were still inside her arm.

Hayden is pulled back by a tiny yank of the IV in the crook of her elbow and the pain stings a little.

She's panicking, but upon regaining her barring, forces herself to calm. The monitor betrayed her, however.

Hayden is stands beside her hospital bed and her mother rushes over to encircle her daughter in her arms in a comforting hug, and Hayden is just wide eyed and disoriented and confused. She hesitates and stutters when she finally speaks.

Her voice croaks from sleep. "What happened; where am I—"

The monitor is still rushing, her heartbeat vivacious. There's a collection of sneakers across the linoleum tile somewhere outside the room and down the hall. A stretcher wheels passed the door.

Hayden starts to calm at feeling her mother's arms give a comforting squeeze. "You had a seizure, momita. Last night. In your room."

"How…how…?"

The last thing Hayden remembers is running from the police, the inky shadows of the trees, her feet slipping on the leaves under her, the sensation of falling down, down, down...

_Had the others gotten caught? Were they alright?_

Her mother pulls away to hold Hayden at arms length. "You were talking on the phone with your friend, Kira, last night when you had the seizure. She had to call me and told me."

Hayden could see the fatigue under her mother's eyes that shse hadn't hidden with concealer, her light brown hair unbrushed and she looked so _raw_ , which is very, very _rare_ for Gloria Romero to show in public.

Gloria pulls her daughter back into a tight hug and Hayden relaxes.

Hayden understood now...

_Kira, that sly fox..._

"Yeah, I remember…" Hayden returns her mother's hug, curling her arms under Gloria's around her shoulders. "Sorry mamá." Hayden's nose buries in her mother's T-shirt that Gloria no doubly had been sleeping in before rushing out the house. She inhales her mother's detergent—it's comforting, and _warm_ and familiar around all this sterile and antiseptic of the hospital that just _reeked_ with depression and wasted expectations and misery.

Hayden didn't like hospitals. In fact, she _hated_ them. They left her feeling… _overwhelmed_ and sick and so, so sad. She avoided them like a plague to the point where it could be considered a phobia. Sometimes, Hayden wondered if it is a phobia.

Gloria smoothes the stray hairs atop her daughter's head, then cups Hayden's cheeks in her hands. "It's all alright now, mamita." Gloria left a kiss in her hair and then wrapped her arms back around her daughter, her body rocking in sort of soothing twisting motion Gloria usually does when she's happy.

That's when the nurses came hurrying in.

* * *

Beacon Hills High School utilizes four acres of land, including its sports fields and school pool. Its has remained standing since the early forties with only a minimal amount of renovations, such as the lockers, the gym floors, locker rooms, and two wings of the main building that had to be completely rebuilt. Its brick walls aren't awarded the most _pristine_ or considerably _outstanding_ school in the county enough to be more than average—but its students—oh, its students...

When Scott McCall bikes up to campus in his usual off-brand jeans and faded burgundy sweater—a different one than from last night, that is safely in the washer as of this morning—he had successfully mastered masking his interior uneasiness and panic behind an unperturbed exterior.

Last night, after successfully dropping Hayden off in her bedroom and driving to the hospital like the responsible, caring friends they were, Kira had made it sure how they all were to handle this—they were to wash their shoes, their clothes, and " _God Scott, if you walk around with that guilty puppy look then everyone is going to know!"_

Kira revealed to be the mastermind behind their covered tracks and was the one holding Scott together.

The boy unmounts his bike, and proceeds to chain it to a bike rack outside the main school doors. He remembers Kira advising him to " _keep that shining, award wining smile and no one is going to ask a_ thing, _"_ but inside, his pulse is pounding and feels like it is ready to barge out of his chest when what he thought for a split second was a patrol car pulling up beside him. Releasing a relaxing sigh, Scott meets the judging eyes of Jackson Whittemore when he exits his dark Porsche.

Jackson's thick eyebrows draw together taking in Scott's standard-priced teen clothing and helmet hair and he scoffs, completely ignoring that his car door backed into Scott's back.

"Watch the paint job," is Jackson's bitter apology.

Scott doesn't hide his replying glare and Jackson walks off to someone calling him, probably a friend, and Scott rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Jackson is a known douche anyways.

In the bus loop, Kira exits the bus with Harley, another of their friends who had refused to join their escapade last night. It's too early in the morning so neither girl is too chatty and entered the main building in joined silence.

Stiles meets up with Scott at the font of the school seconds later, sprinting from his Jeep. He shouts and waves an arm exasperatedly.

"Where..." Scott blinks. "Were you _watching_ me?"

Stiles stops before he stumbles on the curb and became too winded. "No," he breaths, "I was _waiting_ for you. There's a difference." He juggles his backpack to his other shoulder. "Man, you're not gonna believe it— _we_ _found the body!_ "

Scott's jaw drops. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. My dad's crew found it apparently six minutes later after we all left. …I'm going to have nightmares for days. ...This is freakin' _awesome!_ It's like _the_ _best_ thing that's happened in this town since—since the birth of Lydia Martin! Hey, Lydia!"

Scott hears the clicking sound of heels approaching up the sidewalk and closes his eyes, not wanting to see Stiles' look of rejection once more as the aforementioned strawberry blonde walks right past, gaze steadied ahead as if Stiles had never spoken.

Stiles had been pining after Lydia for years now and has gotten _nowhere_ with _no_ apparent hope in sight that the boy could nab the popularity queen, but the boy kept hoping, and Scott wouldn't dare discourage his fiend like that.

Lydia's styled curls bounce and her designer handbag hung on her elbow and she doesn't even _blink_ as she passes and walks right through the school's front doors.

"Looks like…you're going to ignore me!" Stiles calls after her, crestfallen.

"Stiles…" Scott tries.

He whirls around, and his disappointment had evaporated. "You're the cause of this, you know..." He begins sucking his lip, a telltale sign of agitation.

"Uh huh." Scott decides to let his friend have his moment. He rolls his eyes.

"...Dragging me down to your nerd depths. I'm a nerd by association now. I've been _scarlet nerd-ed_ by you."

Scott and Stiles climb the steps into Beacon Hills High and the former shoves his hands in his pockets when a chilly breeze blows. It's still too early in the morning for their preference, and Scott yawned loudly.

The bell rings as a signal that classes will be starting soon. Students begin collecting towards the front doors as well, and the boys hurry inside, knowing that in a few seconds, the hallways would become crowded.

"Have you heard from Hayden? You know, since I had to stay at home because my mom was going to wake up."

Stiles shrugs. "Did you ask Kira? Maybe she knows."

It's a good thought that Scott hadn't considered, and kicks himself for not. Kira is one that Hayden talks to the most, aside from Allison, of course.

"Maybe…"

"Yeah, we can't have her dying on us. I have a class with Kira second period. I'll ask her then," Stiles offers.

 _._ **_. . . ._ **

First class is math—the perfect nap time for so early in the morning—and having a teacher as Mr. Grubber, it might as well be. With a monotone drawl that could rival an electronic software's, the teacher uses his time to complain about cosine ratios, letters in math, and his constepated dog.

It's been ten minutes in and yawns were already circulating in the class.

"As you all must know, there _indeed_ was a body found in the woods last night." The squeaking of marker on the board is drowned out by the mumbling of conversations in the room.

Scott glances at Stiles, and the latter shrugs.

"And I am sure that your _eager little minds_ are coming up with various macab scenarios as of what happened." Grubber caps the marker and turns to face the class. There's a small wet spill from coffee that morning on the breast of his large shirt. "So, I'm sure you all can turn your attention to the lesson today…"

His yammering is drowned out as Scott spaced. This is all a critical scenario. _Someone_ found a body in the woods—but they had found it, at least _some_ of them did.

 _They_ were in those woods last night, willing to tamper with murder evidence.

Not only, they had been out past curfew, caused a friend to have a seizure, and had left another one behind.

Scott straightens in his seat and his pulse starts racing again.

 _What had happened to Donovan?_ He hadn't received a text or call from him either. He hoped that Stiles had went back to get him.

Scott glances over to Stiles again but the boy is looking at his cellphone under the desk. Is he looking for a message from Donovan? Did he even _find_ Donovan last night?

_What if Donovan had been the one that was captured? Would he rat the rest of them out?—surely he would._

Scott is coming close to hyperventilating when a hand touches his shoulder from behind, making him jump in his chair, and he's thankful that the chair didn't screech against the floor.

He looks over his shoulder to see Allison's worried stare.

"You alright?"

Scott nods.

"How'd it go last night?"

He swallows a gulp of air before answering. "It was…it went fine. Have—have you heard from Hayden or Donovan?"

Stiles looks up and watches Scott out of the corners of his eyes.

Allison's brows knit together. "No, I haven't. Why?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Scott shakes his head.

"You sure?"

Stiles turns back to his phone, eyes wide now and scrolls frantically through his phone.

"Yeah. …I think…"

. **_. . . ._**

Second period had ended, Hayden is still nowhere to be found, and Stiles had grown a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. He's feeling a little queasy too.

Kira is going to _kill_ him.

Arms crossed and watching the students mingle in the hallway, he turned his smartphone over in his hands. Hayden usually walks down this way on her way to class, so he would surely see her if she came.

Class is over and third period is about to start and no one had gotten even a text message from Hayden. Or Donovan.

_Where is Donovan?_

Stiles searches the crowd for any signs of his missing friend. But Hayden _would have_ walked that way if her class hadn't moved.

After a slight malfunction last month when the overhead fell from the ceiling, Mr. Yukimura hadn't been too eager to return to the classroom even after the machine was repaired and the room approved as safe again.

Now and a month later, history class was moved back into its original classroom, two hallways over where Stiles stood. Eventually, with the bell about to ring for next class, he drags his hands down his face, lets out a low, distressed groan, and shuffles off.

Meanwhile, a boy balanced an encyclopedia about fictional creatures as his friend overtly avoided him. The one with the encyclopedia, Mason, followed behind his friend who put too much effort to stay ahead. It isn't that the latter finds Mason utterly annoying and unbearable—which is  _far_ from the truth—but this is the beginning of yet another one of Mason's ramblings that the boy, Liam, knows he just has to ride it out until it burns out.

"This is the one I was telling you about. I got it from a rare book dealer in Germany, costs me two hundred bucks but it was totally worth it—"

"Still reading about this stuff?" Liam sighed.

"I was _attacked_ by a _walking_ wolf! It leaves an impression!" Mason defended. "Look—look, have you seen anything like this?" He pointed to an illustration on his current page. It's a scanned sketch of an anthropomorphic wolf.

Liam shook his head. "Uh, no—no. Never." He hadn't even looked at the picture.

"And then there's a whole section about the thing," Mason continued as they approached the open classroom door. "Hav—have you ever heard of the name...Roo-ga...Roo-gaaro..."

The other held in a smirk hearing his friend struggle with pronunciation. He leaned over to see where Mason's finger is following the words. "Rougarou," he corrected.

Mason stares.

The smirk is wiped clean from Liam's face and it became a frown. "Nope, I've never heard of it," he lied.

Mason closes the book, holding in a frustrated sigh. He just couldn't pry his friend open, no matter how he tried and that they've been friends since middle school, and it irked him. He knows Liam is hiding something. In fact, something for the past half year, at least. And he's desperate.

But Mason doesn't say anything, and follows Liam inside the classroom with a deeply etched frown.

Mason is a boy with a golden heart and who wore his emotions on his sleeve. He wears those stretchy, long sleeved shirts, but not the name brand kind. He has a smooth, velvety voice and dark pools of chocolate for eyes that practically screamed what he's thinking. All of him spoke too much. One could guess what he's feeling without words and that is what bugged Hayden so. Every time Mason sits near her, she could _feel_ every time he would get agitated with an assignment, and she'd get frustrated; when he'd get anxious before presentation, her heart would skip; when he would get bored, she would grow sleepy and want to leave class.

The boy is  _too loud_.

But as Mason enters class, Hayden is taken off guard when he chose to sit a seat away from her instead. She's partially relieved, in a way, but his friend—Liam—

 _His friend, Liam_ —

Hayden would have taken Mason over him any day.

Liam freezes seeing Mason rush to take his seat and stands there in the back of the room, books in his hands, and looking utterly stunned. He hesitates for a second and his distress is rolling off him in waves.

And Hayden feels it—she can feel anything if it;s loud enough—and pushes her chestnut locks back to witness his face turn stark white.

And it is  _glorious_.

Her pink gum bubble snaps.

She smiles.

Liam looks around hoping for some kind of escape, an empty seat, if he could still maybe sneak out of class—

"Liam?" the teacher calls.

Liam curses under his breath.

The boy glances at the glaring demon beside him. She's turned back toward the front of the room.

Mr. Yukimura places his open workbook on his desk. "You're not going to stand there all day, are you?"

Liam hesitates, pulse a jackhammer, and nose flaring. "Maybe..."

"The _whole_ semester?"

"... _Maybe_."

Mason is covering his snicker behind his knuckles.

Liam turns, avoiding the collection of faces turning to look at him.

"Liam...have a seat." Mr. Yukimura smiles, devoid of his sharp tone, not understanding the weight of the situation. But if he did...

Mason is smirking when Liam glances at him once more.

 _"I'm going to kill you,"_ he mouths before sitting in the desk between his friend and Hayden.

Mason's smirk widens.

Mr. Yukimura turns to the board and the chalk is tapping way.

The three shared tenth grade history and Liam took the same so his friend wouldn't be alone. But what a mistake that had been, and it isn't like he can switch teachers this late in the year. It's been two fucking months of paper thin tolerance, knife sharp ridicule, plotting petty revenge, and Mason's sly smirks like he just _knew_ —and he didn't. But it's not like Liam set her fucking cat on fire or confiscated her fucking toaster or turtled her backpack, and _so what_ that he didn't like talking about skipping class or vandalizing the class president's car.

Liam sighs in defeat as he takes the empty seat. But…his brows knit together and he wiggles in his seat. Something felt _odd_.

Mr. Yukimura is reading a passage from the textbook that everyone now has open to the instructed page—all except Liam.

Making sure no one is looking, he leans over, and sees a piece of Hayden's pink gum sticking to his pants. And when he looks up, the Latina fiend is  _smiling_.

Liam's fingers drum against his upturned lips.

Mason is going to enjoy today.

. **_. . . ._**

" _What the fuck do you mean you couldn't find Donovan!_ "

"Keep your voice _down_ will you?" Stiles gestures with his hands.

Kira breaths heavily, a hand on her hip and she paces in a circle once.

They were in the concrete walkway outside, between the science lab building and the cafeteria. Stiles had pulled Kira aside and waited out for rush of students to pass before popping the news. He wishes he had pre warned her to not yell.

Kira had gym class, and Scott and Stiles had lacrosse practice. Allison and Harley hadn't bothered staying after the bell, which Kira had been relieved of.

" _Shit_. What the motherfuck—- _shit!_ " She rakes a hand through her dark hair. "How?"

"What?" Stiles blinks.

Scott watches, leaning against the brick wall, hands back in his sweat pockets. He's somewhat in the middle of the two.

"How the hell do you _lose a person?_ "

Now, Stiles becomes just as animated and gesturing as she is. "I don't know, maybe when you go out _looking_ in the last place they were, and you _can't find them_. Wait..."

Kira sighs audibly again, exaggeratedly. She's angry, Scott thinks.

"Are you alright, Kira?" he asks.

"No. _Bigshot_ here's gonna be the reason we're all _arrested_ —"

" _You_ were the one who told me to drive and _go_!" Stiles defends.

A heavy pause passes of her and Stiles staring at each other that borderlines a glare, and Scott is the only one seeming calm in this situation. He scratches his head once.

Kira suddenly turns to him. "Why are you so calm!" she practically screams.

For a second Scott is disoriented. He blinks. "I-I'm not!" His pulse has been high and palms sweating throughout watching this entire argument. "I'm just as worried as you are!"

Kira crosses her arms. Her tone is calmer now. "Well you sure don't look like it. How do you do it?"

He shrugs. "Just do what you said to do: don't get all exasperated, think first then talk, and keep a straight face."

Stiles gives an appointed glare to Kira—she had broken all three of those things. But then again, when does she ever follow her own advise?

"Oh shut up," she snaps before Stiles could speak his sarcasm.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please tell me anything and everything you want to happen or see!**
> 
> **This is meant to be in the same "episode" if you will of the last chapter and is part one of what was supposed to be chapter two**


	3. Chapter 3

Kira drinks juice cartons _obnoxiously_ loud. As if she slurps loudly enough, the air inside would miraculously transform into more juice.

She watches Stiles slump from across the cafeteria table. He's been chewing on the drawstring of his navy blue sweater and staring intensely at the entrance of the cafeteria for the last seven minutes. Again, she sucks mostly air through the thin white straw.

"If you slurp _one more time_ I'm going to through that carton across the room," the teen threatens around the string between his teeth.

Kira stops, considers it. "Glaring bloody murder at everyone that comes in isn't going to make Hayden appear any faster." And as he begin to deflate, she sucks her straw one last time just for the hell of it, earning Stiles whiplashing with a glare. "I texted twice again since second period. Hopefully she'll answer soon. Hopefully she'll be awake at the hospital, unless...you know..."

The string falls from Stiles' mouth; he begins wringing his hands instead. "Yeah, and I texted her too, like, twenty times already."

Both the necks of Kira and Scott, who are seated at the same table, whip in his direction, surprised.

"What? I'm not the _only_ one who texted her! You guys did too!"

"No. It's because you text like a frantic grandmother. You double-text. No, you don't _text_ , you send three page essays. Sending each paragraph separately."

Stiles sneers.

"Actually, I didn't." Scott admits, arms folded atop the table. "My math teacher is strict about phones. Besides, I knew you guys would before I was able to."

Kira leans across Scott. " _Aww_! You care about her!" It's directed at Stiles who sneers. And pointing to Scott, "and you—you're an asshole. You're the first one I'm ratting if we're taken down."

He gapes. "Wha—why?! If the cops go through _my_ phone, they aren't going to find anything!."

Stiles points at his friend. "Actually—that's a good idea, though."

"Yeah, just like letting our other friend _die_."

"Look, I didn't mean it like that!"

"By the way have _either_ of you heard from Donovan?"

Both Stiles and Scott shake their heads. Stiles informs that he plans to skip his next class, since he has a substitute, sneak off the school grounds and go search the woods again. Kira and Scott offer to tag along.

It's four class periods later and Scott's anxiety is through the roof, and he feels as if there is no saving grace as he looks back and forth between his friends, palm still facing up and worrying for his own wellbeing. The bell has recently rung for the start of their forty minute lunchtime. And the three have been going back and forth like this whenever the teachers don't speak and they see each other in the hallway. Stiles isn't doing much better than Scott and just can't _focus_ on anything but the possible consequences from last night, the friend of his who had been left in the woods the night before, and the other who resulted in a seizure. Kira is the only who has managed to keep her cool. But then again, it is only because she's kept her mouth closed.

Their anxious exchange is brought to an abrupt halt at the arrival of Harley and Allison within the mass of students flooding through the cafeteria doors and stampeding to the food lines. Arriving at the table they occupy every lunch period, Allison plants a kiss on Scott's cheek as she takes the seat at his left. Harley has gone to the lunch line to buy pepperoni pizza delivered from the restaurant down the street.

"Hey..." Allison hangs her book bag over the back of the chair, and the silence is pronounced and deafening. "...What's—what's going on? You all've seemed nervous since this morning." She smiles, trying to mask her suspicions.

The three remain silent. Scott looks to Kira. Kira looks to Stiles. Stiles looks to Scott.

"What are you guys talking about? Why do you seem on edge?" Allison's eyes widen expectantly.

Stiles stifles a strained laugh. "On edge? No one here's on edge—"

"We're just worried—worried, is all," Kira saves. "About Hayden...is all." And she catches a look from Stiles, she sees from her peripheral.

"Wait, what's wrong with Hayden?"

Stiles' jaw offsets. Scott sits straighter. Kira fidgets her fingers.

Scott is the first to peak up. "We didn't want to tell you, but last—"

"Something happened. Last night," Stiles interjects. "She, uh, went missing—"

Allison's brows shoot upward, partially surprise, mostly of it worry.

"She's not missing. We _thought_ she went missing. Since she wasn't at school. Today," Kira interrupts before anything could spill the secrets of their events the night before. Allison inquires a clarification in disbelief. "She—we—we've been texting her because she didn't show up at school today, and—apparently there was something wrong that happened last night when we talked, and, like—" Kira stopped, clears her throat. "Hayden's in the hospital and we haven't heard from her since lat night."

Allison's brows lower. Ignorant of the situation, she doesn't hold as much fear as the rest who are afraid their missing friend could possibly be dead, though Allison is still very concerned. She asks what happened. Kira lies, stating that no one is sure.

Sure, out of them all, Allison expects Hayden to contact her first and foremost. But still the optimist, she wants to believe that there isn't anything too serious; she wants to believe that Hayden isn't responding because of the usual—that she's was in class, or has her cell phone turned off, or left it at home during her morning rush again, or was absent because it was all too overwhelming today.

Kira tells that she thinks that Hayden had a seizure last night while on the phone. The last seizure Allison knew her friend had was in fifth grade.

Out the four of them, Allison Argent has known Hayden for the longest time. Having spent elementary school together up until the fourth grade, they have the longest running history. After Hayden moved to Nevada and tossed back and forth of living with her mother and her father, the two kept in contact for a year via AOL email. But then time passed, the miles took affect, and both girls grew up. Hayden's parents had complications with the matrimony and were divorced. Allison remained in California, attended middle school, and met Scott McCall her first year in high school. It wasn't until the graduation of middle school was Hayden given the choice to live with her mother. The two moved to California and she began high school and she and Allison began reconnecting.

That had been over a year ago.

Now in the cafeteria, the remaining three believe that their friend is either dead or nearing. Scott's throat tightens, pulse rushing, and there's a lump forming in his throat from panic because he can only imagine Allison's reaction if she ever finds out, _doesn't want_ her to find out. She doesn't need to find out.

Kira sits straighter in her chair and looks around the room. The stream of stuendets has lessened now, the cafeteria nearly full and crowded and loud with conversation.

"Sorry we didn't tell you. We didn't want you to worry." Scott twists the knob of his wristwatch.

Kira asks, "Have you heard from her, though? She hasn't answered any of my texts, and we're growing worried."

"Yeah, mine either," Stiles pulls out his phone, opens the messaging app to forward the same text sent the last seven times in the past two hours: _Where are you? You're not dead are you?_

Then Kira's phone chimes from her back pants pocket. As she's scrambling to open the app, she misses the entrance of Lydia—which isn't as amusing as Stiles' compulsive gawking.

"Well it looks like she's just fine to me." Allison points to the cafeteria door main entrance.

"Wait—wha—" Stiles recollects himself, motions exasperatedly toward Lydia.

Kira and Scott turn at breakneck speed toward the main entrance. And surely enough, at Lydia's side, enduring her squabbles and gossiping is Hayden Romero, smiling. A sigh of relief echoes throughout the group. The text message Kira received says: _Yeah I'm fine and here_.

If one doesn't know, there is only one thing to know about Lydia Martin: she's one of the school's most prominent figures; she's popular and the IQ of a possible Nobel Prize winner. Been placed in almost every extracurricular activity since preschool, three years of gymnastics, and two child pageants, she's the epitome of every parents dream and teacher's envy. She wears Prada, Gucci, and Hermes; carries designer handbags in the crook of her elbow and has fur boots exclusively bought. She spends the summer at her parents' vacation home, wiling away sultry sunny afternoons to a monotonous looping soundtrack of crashing waves and shrieking seagulls—and she brushes up on her Italian and she drinks enough Talaria pinot noir to stain her tongue a dark, lurid crimson and she twirls her hair around her fingertips, wishes fervently that she had the proper complexion to dye it something _different_ as she paints her nails the exact same shade of red as freshly spilled blood while not thinking at all about how or why she's now a veritable expert on the subject.

Lydia Martin is the school's golden child, practically—

She would deny it if ever suggested.

She's popular and well connected and _spoiled_.

Besides Hayden, Lydia's entourage consists of three more girls: Caitlin Dinkley, Emily Reed, and Ashely Weaver. All have diamond-studded ears and and white strip-bright teeth. They walk like they're dignified, sophisticated, and _important._ As usual, there is a pep in her gait and a toss of Lydia's strawberry blonde hair, and her boyfriend, Jackson, carrying her backpack, the ever-permeant partially bored, partial _annoyed_ lines around his mouth. At their lunch table is the rest of their clique, three guys—one fiddling with a camera bag, another who wears a look of consistent alarm, and Danny Mahealani.

Seeing Lydia's entrance as well, Harley gives a comment as she arrives to Kira's table. "Aww, doesn't it look like she totally doesn't want to kill herself?" She sets her tray across from Allison. Her lip pouts as if finding the girls _endearing_. It's sarcastic. "Cute."

Stiles is the only one whose neck swivels back around, brows furrowing, and an accusation, a defense readying to spew.

"Close your mouth or a fly's going to fly in," she interjects. Raises a hand before he finishes his first word. "And I _don't care_ about your since-Kindergarten crush on Lydia, man! I want to focus on my food and why Scott looks like he's swallowed something nasty."

The aforementioned jolts to attention.

"We were just talking about Hayden. I thought she was skipping school again, but looks like she's playing for the villains again today," Kira speaks for him, and quite bitterly, honestly.

Because the other table is deemed unfit for Stiles and the others to interact with, they try not to look towards Lydia and Jackson and their clique—averting their incredulous stares from Hayden.

Lydia twirls her plastic spork around, plump rosy lips puckered, then pouting, as she muses around Hayden's story. The girl just explained why she hadn't met up with Lydia that morning. "Wait...you were in the hospital and you came back _this_ early? Are you sure that's _healthy_?"

Hayden hesitates. Shrugs. Considers, "well I remember being told _very specifically_ if I didn't show up, that Jackson would key Stiles' Jeep."

Jackson freezes, looks up from his iceberg lettuce salad.

Lydia's eyes widen, head tilts, and she assures so calmly, nonchalantly, "no. No. No, that wouldn't happen. We wouldn't do that." She turns to her boyfriend at the head of the table. "Would we, Jackson?"

A thick, dark eyebrow rises along with the water bottle to his mouth. He doesn't give an response—doesn't need to. He practically eats, drinks, breaths egotism. Hayden crosses her wrists and her eyes roll to the tabletop.

For Hayden, Lydia was bearable, _slightly_ , but Jackson—

Jackson was another story. He reminded her of one of those trailing rainclouds from cartoons, the ones that brought immediate grey skies and lightening and wouldn't leave the character—and Jackson is the raincloud.

Lydia raises a brow expectantly. " _Would we_ , Jackson?"

He throws a hand in the air. "Whatever."

Lydia sucks her teeth.

Emily rolls her eyes, sighing exaggeratedly. Matt pulls out his digital camera as a distraction to the rising tension. Danny makes a remark about the other seeming to never eat, and Matt's reasoning is that "the school's food taste like ass."

"Of course you would know what that tastes like."

Offended, Matt leans forward, squaring his shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means _kissing it_ is what you do all day."

Beside then, Corey chuckles.

Hayden's attention diverges and she spaces out. Her eyes dart around those at the table, and then across the cafeteria. She doesn't move in her seat, only observes. Listens. Feels the vibes and emotions smothering the large rooms and it's—distracting— _suffocating_ , really. Beneath the table, she begins picking at her fingertails, tearing the ends off and shortening the nails again. It's a nervous tick for when she's uncomfortable. She catches Harley leaving the "fresh lunch line." A student drops his lunch after turning from the window. A couple making out in a booth in the far corner of the room. Sunlight filters in through the windows that look out onto the soccer field. There's a table full of Yu-Gi-Oh card players. And she sees the table of her friends and locks eyes with Kira who gives a small wave with her fingers. The caferia doors are left open, a single security officer conversing with one of the lunch servers behind the window.

Across the current table, Lydia is talking. Corey is attempting to hold his own in a conversation. And Hayden can feel Jackson glaring, glaring, the ice blue of his eyes scathing her skin, burrowing underneath like a parasite, into her insides, able to see her intentions and her soul. He almost always makes her uncomfortable.

Danny speaks another jibe toward Matt's self-esteem. Then, as if noticing the jock's staring, Matt orders for Jackson's attention, and snaps his fingers in the other's face which finally gets Jackson to blinks, snap out of his trance, and finally look away from Hayden. One of Lydia's friends, Ashely, asks if Jackson is feeling well. Instead, he excuses himself to the bathroom.

Lydia sighs tiredly.

In the line for the normal school-served lunch, Liam has his head in a book, shuffling forward every few inches the line moves forward. The book is the bestiary Mason bought, lent only under the pretense that no harm would come to it. Hayden watches how he's so concentrated that he almost walks into the girl ahead of him. Hayden also sees the girl take an extra step away, pulls her Abercrombie book bag closer. Liam tightens his lips, taking a generous step back.

Hayden's brows furrow.

Behind him is another teenage boy and a girl, both whom Hayden barely recognizes, and seem like opposites of each other—the girl all hard edges and a permeant frown, the boy taller and much softer with eyes sympathetic and benign. Hayden also notices that there is space between the three and the rest of the students in line—it's not a lot, but it's noticeable enough. The line moves forward. The hard-edge girl bumps Liam's shoulder to order him to move. He explains over his shoulder what looks like an excuse because he waits for Abercrombie-bag to move a bit further before finally taking one step. Hard-edge doesn't approve. Softer boy tries to talk her down—Hayden can only guess from her distance. It's suspicious and skeptical because she's seen this before, when presumptions and stereotypes are made and Hayden grows concerned—which amazes even herself—because it's Liam, fucking _Liam_ , and—

Matt is snapping his fingers in front of her face and Hayden abruptly tunes back to the conversations at the table. She blinks, responses with a rude, "what?"

Jabbing a finger, he simply explains, "she was talking to _you_." He means Lydia.

Oh.

"You didn't hear _a word_ I was saying, did you?" the strawberry blonde chides.

Hayden shakes her head, growing embarrassed.

" _God_! What were you staring at so badly?" Lydia reaches across the table to pull Matt aside, as he sits directly in front of her view. Her grey eyes search the area behind him and her eyes find, lock onto the three obvious outcasts in line. "Oh..." Her nose wrinkles and she turns to Hayden. "Don't tell me...that you're honestly _interested_ in them?"

"No, I wasn't! I don't even know them."

"Good...beceause then I wouldn't have been able to invite you."

"Yeah," Jackson adds. "You can't go around helping every sad case you hear about."

"Invited to what? And, what sad case?" Hayden questions.

"To the house party this Saturday. My birthday." Lydia puts on her cute, picture perfect prom queen smile, and Hayden's eyebrows arch.

"You _honestly_ don't know?" Jackson folds his arms. "About the murders? And them? God, everyone knows."

Hayden shakes her head. "No. I might have heard something but I never really paid attention. And I don't really watch the news. I...I don't like it. It's too sad all the time."

Matt sighs, "well you can't always have all good news."

Jackson ignores him. "Those three—crooked one, two, and three—pretty sure they're responsible. Or at least involved." Hayden asks for further clarification, so Jackson returns to the apple he's been working on. "So," he takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Quirks an eyebrow. "Dunbar's tried out for the lacrosse team, so that's how I know him—the sudden nerd with the book. Didn't get a spot, though. Believe it's because—that dead bodies were found too near his house. All of them, all three of them were persons of interest because four bodies, I think, were found in the woods near their neighborhood. Or something like that."

"So? That doesn't mean that they're responsible."

Jackson leans forward for emphasis. "It does if they were out in the woods fleeing the scene around the same time the body reportedly died."

Hayden doesn't say anything after, her eyes wide.

"And from what I heard, when they were questioned, that girl—Malaysia-whoever—was aggressive as _hell_ and showed all the signs of a killer. At least in my opinion." Hayden begins questioning about the third student, but Jackson is already touching the subject. "And _he_ was a nervous wreck. Lahey. And _somehow_ he was allowed on the team, but..." Jackson shakes his head. Bites into his apple.

Hayden's jaw hangs. She looks to her folded arms, back to Jackson, to the now-empty lunch line, catching the three murder-suspicious students leaving the cafeteria with their trays.

Well now it all makes sense. The police who have visited their school that month. The ostracizing of certain students. Allison and Hayden's nervous refusal to join the night of their escapade. Stiles determination to find the body.

Lydia dusts her palms together. "Well, not to change the subject, but—"

" _But_ you're going to anyway." Jackson rolls his eyes.

Lydia glares. Continues anyway. " _But_ , I'd better see _you_ there, Hayden. I like you. You and Isobel—quiet, shy Isobel. I want you to come, Hayden, because you're like... _my charm_. And I want you to show those party tricks. You know, the ones where you guess things perfectly. I love that one!"

* * *

At promptly twenty minutes into their next class, Stiles' name is called over the intercom. He is to report to the main office. That he should come immediately. That his father is here for him. In the desk behind him, Kira's head snaps up. She and Scott are wearing the same wide-eyed appearance of alarm. It's worse since finding out that attendance was mandatory with the class substitute.

School ends promptly ten minutes before three.

Stiles' feet are heavy. Frantic assumptions are running through his mind. It feels as if he is walking toward his death. Well, in a way, he is.

When he meets his father, his pulse is in his throat. He swallows. Approaches. Gives a normal greeting. Instead, the lines between his father's brow deepen. The deputy is speaking to the receptionist in the attendance office.

Stiles is told that his friend, Donovan, was found out in the woods earlier that morning and is in critical condition at the local hospital. Donovan suffered blunt trauma to his head, Stiles is informed. Donovan received multiple wounds from a supposed animal attack, found nearly an hour after Stiles drove home. Donovan is currently in a coma. And surprisingly, Stiles lasts longer than he expected, frankly. He doesn't break down, but his throat does go dry and sickly green guilt churns his insides as he stands, frozen. He had his fears, but hadn't thought they would be _true_ , especially not after seeing Hayden's wellbeing.

"Donovan's parents were contacted earlier this morning. We're sorry, son. Since I was here, I thought it was best to tell you."

This was all Stiles' fault.

"It's—you—alright—fine." Stiles' words tangle. His father rests hand on his shoulder. "It's—I'm fine. It's not your fault."

"I know, son."

His cell phone vibrates in his back pocket. Stiles sighs.

Sheriff Stilinski's hand tightens. "Which is why I called you up here. We're hoping to find out if anyone has any information on either your friend or the body found. And since you were there last night..."

"No. I don't know anything."

The sheriff shuffles his feet, removes his hand from his son's shoulder. "Really? You know _nothing_?"

Stiles stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his denim jeans. Shrugs. Shakes his head.

"So near one in the morning, out in the woods when I could have _sworn_ that I gave you specific instructions _not_ to leave the house, you saw _nothing_? Because that sounds suspicious to me."

Stiles wets his bottom lip. His pulse speeds. Adrenaline rushes through him. He becomes serious. "Alright. The truth? I was out late to help look for the body, yes. But I didn't know Donovan was _there_. And—and I don't know if you remember, but I was sleep by the time you got home. How could I have done anything when at home, Dad?"

The sheriff lowers his chin, nods. "You're right—"

"Thank you!"

"But also—and I'm only asking out of curiosity, and that a you still didn't answer me—did I not give you specific instructions to _not_ leave the house when there is a killer on the loose? Now what made you think you could disobey me?"

Stiles drops his head, leans to the side, looks to the corner own the ceiling. "Yeah—yes. You did." And then he runs off with quick-worded play-by-play pf his thought process on why he disobeyed—from the hour-long broken concentration from his homework to Twitter and Kik messaging to another three hours of research and finding this one _suspicious_ and probably X-rated movie—leaving out the parts about going murder-body-hunting that night, of course. His father stops him mid-ramble, a hand raises and a tired expression.

"I don't... _Stiles_ , just tell me if you're _sure_ you didn't see anything else in the woods. No suspicious persons? Probably heard the animal that attacked Donovan?"

"Well if you'd let me finish..."

"Paraphrase."

"Uh, domino effect of lose of focus?"

His father rolls his eyes, giving a light sigh. Crosses his arms, and his head tilts a little to the left. "This better be good. And convincing enough for you to keep that Jeep."

"It's—my—my Jeep?"

His father nods. Stress lines etch deep in his forehead. His tongue darts out. Nods.

"Why—my Jeep? C'mon, Dad!"

"Also," Sheriff Stilinski pulls something from his pocket. It's Stiles' wallet, and the teen honestly hadn't noticed its absence; tosses it to his son. "Next time, don't drive without your license. I won't be there to save your butt all the time. If you get pulled over..."

Stiles catches his wallet with a fumble.

He checks the inside, finds his un-stolen driver's license, student ID, MasterCard, and several restaurant membership cards have remained untouched. "I had twenty dollars in here."

Mr. Stilinski shrugs. "That's what happens when you go running in the woods on a school night when you're _supposed_ to be asleep and _in bed_." He strolls to the kitchen, ignoring his son's open-mouth gape of disbelief. Until the sheriff admits, "I used it for gas."

Stiles gets through the god-awful fucking discipline interrogation with most of t-shirt dry and himself in tact. Practically _sprinting_ to back to his class after disappearing out of sight around the corner.

"We're going to need to question more students," his father had told him. He and his deputy are at the school to question students about the events of last night—of Donovan and half of a dead body found that is now along the continuous string of murders. They will be looking for any possible suspects or friends, relatives. His father tells that they are considering questioning the three students here who had been too-close to the first two murders, and are still considered persons of interest.


	4. Chapter 4

Four hours later, Scott is following his best friend back into the woods again. They have been in wondering for fifteen minutes now, trying to find the location they had been the night before.

Thirty-six minutes ago, school ended and lacrosse practiced ended, their gear hurriedly stuffed into duffle bags, and the duo raced to Stiles' Jeep. They sent a short group text message to the girls about the news Stiles had been informed of by the sheriff.

And Scott knows that his mother is going to _kill_ him once she hears, when he's brought home in handcuffs for trespassing and suspicion. He'll be even more dead if he returns home without his inhaler...

The two climb up the familiar steep hill, passing the curved trunk of a tree Scott had leaned against, and the arched dead tree root they had huddled beneath.

Scott's gaze scans the fallen leaves and debris for any indication—a spark of recognition, of familiarity that they were going in the correct direction; his inhaler must be around here.

Behind him, Stiles slips on a patch of leaves. Scott feigns unawareness.

Stiles nimbly steps onto a stone protruding from a small creek. This is the exact way back to where he was stopped by the police, he says. He believes. He _thinks_.

Scott shoots a skeptical glare.

Stiles slips on the next rock as he crosses the creek, soaking his sneaker.

"Wait—so they didn't ask for anything about us since we were caught there? All he asked you was about your _wallet_?" Scott asks.

Stiles shakes his wet shoe. The waterloo is down to his sock. He curses underneath his breath. "Yeah."

"And you don't think that's _fishy_ to you?"

Stiles sucks his teeth. "Of course I think it's _fishy_ , but it's nothing we can do about it right now. Besides, they said that they're going to interview students again. That didn't give any indication that it'll be us."

Scott hums. He scans the trees, but they look mostly the same. He slows his pace and Stiles passes, taking the lead. Scott sighs, tilts his head up to the sky, fiddles with his cell phone in his pocket. His inhaler must be around here somewhere...

"Yeah. As far as I know, we're in the clear." Then, under his breath, Stiles mumbles, "almost pissed my pants too but..."

Overhead, the sky is cotton white with overcast. Tree branches reach like dark, boney claws, as if to puncture through the clouds.

"And you said that your dad said Donovan is in a coma?" Scott ducks under a branch that Stiles detours around.

"Yeah." The other violently shakes his wet shoe again. "They found him in the woods after we left last night. That's why I couldn't find him." There's a hint of relief in his voice; Scott couldn't blame him. "Guess we should go visit him..."

Scott nods, voicing agreement. "That would be the _smart_ thing to do."

"Listen—I'm plenty smart—"

"Yet you go looking for _dead bodies_ at _night_? Hypocritical, isn't it?"

"Look, _you_ went with me too."

Scott closes his eyes, sighs, admits that the other is right. Though, to be honest, he is beginning to regret it—leaving that night had been an act spontaneous rebellion, because he had nothing else to lose after receiving a failing grade of an exam and his mother was working late and he knew that if no one went with Stiles, his friend would get into even more trouble than necessary, added in Scott's already low confidence of receive first line in lacrosse.

The two teens continue in silence, walking deeper and deeper into the woods, thankful for the daylight and less shadows. Dead twigs snap under their shoe soles. There's a large fire ant mound in their path. Stiles fingers his cellphone in his back pocket. Somewhere, a crow caws in alarm and flies off. A chill shoots down Stiles' spine, and he shutters violently.

These woods have a reputation about them. Formerly known as friendly camping grounds, five months ago the first body was reported yards from the backyard. There is a housing complex that borderlines the trees; the renters of that home had been very much shaken being the burned remains on their property. By the second reported body, there were suspects of interest and red targets painted on the backs of vulnerable citizens.

There had already been ghost stories arising from a number of suspicious sightings peppered throughout the past few years, only to increase at the start of the murders—increasing with the foreboding from superstitions. There have been acclaims of strange voices on the wind reported by local once-undeterred campers, and sightings of peculiar people wondering the area—some covered from head to toe, sprouting wings, and others only dressed in the simple and least amounts of clothing. The wildlife have remained undeterred, though.

The previous body had been found three months ago. The stories died along with the reports. For three months, there was silence until the newest body was found. And now it also took Scott and Stiles' friend.

But the tales were all farfetched and fable talk, suspected as ghost stories to discourage the troublemakers from tampering with possible evidence. And it would all have been easily shrugged off if the stories had begun at the beginning of the murders instead of carrying on the wave of anxiety at their sprouting.

The forests along the far, east end of Beacon Hills is known for its strange sightings and superstition tales.

The third and newest murder victim was discovered last night, when Scott and Stiles and their small band intervened. It had been the first severed corpse, the sixth dead body in the woods.

Scott vaguely recalls when they left, it had been on a full moon night.

"When do you think we should?" Stiles asks about visiting Donovan in the hospital. "They said his skull—the back of his skull was split open. My skin crawls just at the thought of it."

"As soon as possible, I suppose." Scott shrugs.

"Hey, what if it's a disease? That he got from the night? You know, like on those documentaries—when he hit his head, bacteria got all inside."

Scott shoots a doubtful look. "If anything, he would have gotten an infection," he corrects. "Like, his body flooded with adrenaline, he pushed himself too much, and then passed out from exertion. He went into shock or something, and the wound exposed, got an infection." He slows his steps, the surrounding beginning to take familiarity. Scott stops. His speech does too: "when...he hit his head somewhere off..."

Stiles, who had been walking ahead, notices his friend lagging behind and spins, trudges back.

There's a line of marker yellow police caution tape that hadn't been there the night before. Scott stares, and realizes that it's cutting off, no, encircling the scene of a crime. Small cones stamped with bold black numbers had been placed systematically across the ground—a number four beside a patch of leaves; a six near a deep divot in the ground; a one near an obvious shoe print.

Scott blinks. A heavy stone of dread sets in his gut as he realizes that the caution tape is encircling the area they had been. It looks like the area Hayden fell; not too far from where the body was discovered.

By now, Stiles is standing at his friend's side. His hands reach to the top of his head as he too grimaces. "Shit. _Shit_ ," he whispers. "This can't be happening."

Scott pauses, scans the area. Stays silence. Listens. Gauges the possible outcomes, the most likely possibilities. Finally, he mutters, "it has to be here."

"Wait, _what?_ "

He doesn't repeat. "C'mon, Stiles." And then the teen is ducking beneath the yellow tape, stepping gingerly as if the crunching leaves underfoot could be heard across town. As if the ground is made of delicate petals, of glass shards ready to stab through the soles of his shoes. As if he would fall through at any moment, the ground opening up to a deep, dark void akin to The Silent Place.

"Sc—Scott— _Scot_ _t_! That's evidence! You're—you can't—what the fu—!"

"Yeah, and I lost my inhaler somewhere. If they find anything connected to us, we're done for." He's just made it five footsteps further into the scene of the crime. Scott pauses, holding out a finger for the other to quiet as he listens to his surroundings.

It's late in the evening. School ended two hours ago. Scott's mother should be ringing his cellphone in the next hour to tell that she will be home for dinner or drop off money for pizza or some other.

The woods give appropriate sounds: birds chirping, a squirrel scampering that makes him jump, the rustling of scampering critters. There's a wood pecker. A crow's caw. There is no foreboding ambience. No approaching vehicles, forensic cameras shuttering, dogs huffing, walkie-talkie chirping.

Scott breaths a sigh of relief. He takes a step further, more bold.

" _Scott_!" His friend's voice is high and shrill, presses his knuckles to his teeth.

"Stiles. Are you coming or _not_?" He still has his hands out, balancing on an invisible tightrope.

Stiles has to gas himself up—bending and stretching his knees, running his hands across his short stubble of hair, jogs in place—before he takes a running charge and dives under the police tape and skids an extra few steps across dead leaves.

"Congratulations," Scott comments in deadpan at his friend's over enthusiasm.

He's panting. "Thanks. I'd give myself a ten out of ten."

"Yeah, if we make it out of this alive. I feel like I'm walking on a minefield."

Stiles takes a look around. "Yeah, you kind of are. Just don't step on any of the markers indicating evidence, alright?" He hears his pulse in his ears. He prays that no one would come up while they are out here. There was no way he could talk himself out of this misdemeanor. "Where did you say you're inhaler was last?"

Scott bends a knee, looks at the leaves, up at the surrounding trees, back down at his sneaker. "It _has_ to be here..."

Stiles approaches, resting his hands on his hips. "How're you sure?"

Last night, he had been in this wooded area when he could have sworn that he noticed something else in the woods that night, or _someone_ else—heard an extra pair of footsteps, seen a fleeting shadow among the trees, heard a growl carried on the wind. "It had been when me and Kira were carrying Hayden back to your Jeep, and..." Yet as he speaks this, he realizes how foolish those suspicions sound. He shakes his head instead, dismissing.

"Nah, nah. I think I might know what it is—what happened to Donovan."

Scott urges the other to humor him, needing the mood lightened.

"Well, I read about this once. These things only happen on a full moon. Attacks like this occur only, like, once a month."

Confused, Scott asks for clarification. In response, Stiles lets out a soft, mockery of a wolf's howl.

He earns a shove in the arm.

"Ok," Stiles laughs. "You're the one who heard a wolf howling in the East woods."

Tossing his arms out, Scott defends, "there could be something seriously wrong with Donovan."

"I know! He could be a werewolf! Cool, huh? Imagine—that's gotta be cool." Seeing his friend shake his head in disapproval, Stiles quickly sobers up, clears his throat. "No, but really..." Sees Scott reach to move aside a tree branch. He too begins searching through a nearby path of debris. "Where do you think you dropped it? Did you happen to see where?"

"I—I—I could have sworn it was right _here_. Hayden started having a seizure and me and Kira stopped to help her. You and Donovan kept running—that way." He points in a direction ahead.

Stiles brushes aside a cluster of dead leaves, lifts a dried plank of wood. "Maybe the killer came back for the body."

"I sure hope he left my inhaler, though. They're, like, eighty bucks." Then, taking a second to toss over the information, he asks, "is that what you heard?" Scott means about the killer returning, or an alleged killer.

"No, I wasn't told anything. Just—trying to be optimistic, you know?"

Scott understands. He thinks it would be better if the killer got to his inhaler rather than the authorities.

Then his hand stops, his movements freeze. "Hey, Stiles?" Scott looks up. "Did you ever think that some of those evidence marked could be our tracks? The footprints _we_ left?"

By the sudden halt in sifting leaves and his friend's silence, Scott knows that Stiles hadn't considered so.

Leaning back on his heels, Scott looks over his shoulder to his friend, looking for a number cone, but instead he halts. The blood in his veins run ice-cold and he _freezes_ , his breath lodging in his throat, and inwardly, he begins to panic. His eyes bug out of his skull. He's rapidly tapping, slapping Stiles' shoulder. And his friend whirls around in confusion, then follows Scott's petrified gaze, back around forward.

A man had been watching them in the woods—Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. The man is standing a few yards away. Is wearing a dark leather jacket over a v-neck shirt, black denim jeans, and a dark scowl, thick brows nearly casting a shadow. He's tall, obviously, tall and broad shouldered and long limbed; more brawn than anything else. But there's a promising sort of elegance to how he's put together, almost. Big hands coming out of his pants pockets and his strong forearms sway as he begins forward, and there's an unexpected layer of muscle bunching beneath layer of his exposed v-neck, vein protruding from his neck, stretching and flexing and _pulling_ beneath the ochre skin as he searches for a sign from the two teens. He's stressed. He's straining. He's _angry_.

Stiles jumps to his feet.

The stranger approaches with a gait of authority.

Stiles' eyes are as wide as saucers. A lump materializes in his throat and he tastes copper and bile. Scott falls back on his ass before scrambling to his feet. The stranger is nearing the opposite side of the police tape.

"The hell are _you_ doing here?" he demands, just as Scott begins to feel sick in the stomach.

The teen arches a brow but otherwise doesn't bother to respond. Can't respond. Stiles acts irrelevant, scratching the top of his head and avoiding eye contact. Their whereabouts, however, is not. The man's gaze is accusingly sharp and icicle cold as it sweeps over the surroundings and the captured.

Neither teen answers him.

" _Hey_ ," he repeats, undeterred, harshly. "I _asked_ you two a _question_."

Scott glances at the untouched yellow tape separating them all that reaches up to the stranger's stomach, he thinks. Scott swallows; this man is taller, robust, and likely much, much physically stronger than either of them, and Scott feels like a fool. A fucking idiot. A fucking _amateur_.

"Do you not think that entitles you to _answer_ , does it?"

"U—um..."

"This is private property. Why are you trespassing on _my land_?!"

"Oh— _oh_!" Stiles' brows shoot skyward. He begins to improvise. Short, strained and nervous chuckles are made as he speaks. "This is your land? We had no—absolutely no idea! We didn't—didn't mean to—"

Stiles cuts abruptly. Swallows.

The man hasn't looked away, stern scowl seeming to deepen.

Scott leans to his friend's ear, whispers, "you _know_ this is his land. _Everybody_ knows that."

And Stiles is quick to snap in an equally strained whisper. "Then we both look like idiots, don't we? You don't think I know that? Huh? Mister wise-guy? Why don't _you_ try negotiating with the menacing _big guy_  in the leather jacket in the middle of the woods, huh?"

Scott shakes his head dismissively. His hands shove into his pockets.

The man narrows his eyes.

The teens sway. Adrenaline courses at high speed and downs their limbs.

Scott speaks up next. "Sorry man, we were just looking for something."

And he's suddenly paying only _very_ minimal attention to the granola bar wrapper and spare change and crumpled gas station receipt in the bottom of his pants pocket. They are about to be reprimanded and handed over to the authorities. The inhaler could wait, he decides, because, Scott—

Because Scott is powerless; he's impotent and unimpressive. He and Stiles are about to be found out, and he's regretting all of his actions, all of his careless, teenage impulsive and despondent decision-making leading up to this point. The ground breaks underneath his feet, and his chest coils tight; he and Stiles are about to be found out and turned in by a man who is more brawn and browbeat than they could take on, and who likely doesn't allow second chances. And Scott is all long limbs and curly hair and is lanky more than anything; if he plays dumb, tries to run or even fight would be a useless effort—he wouldn't stand a chance.

The man's brows arch expectantly.

Stiles shuffles, nervous and uncomfortable.

Scott's chest tightens and it's suddenly difficult for him to breathe. He tries to play it off—shuffling on his feet, coughing, inhaling deep and slow, raises his hands to his head—but quickly doubles over, clutches his chest, his breaths coming out rapid and fast and strained. Stiles is at his side immediately, coaching his friend to breathe.

"Do as all the times before: deep breaths, man. Deep breaths."

Scott coughs out that he can't.

The mysterious man watches with dark eyebrows drawn together.

And Stiles turns suddenly, and he is no longer afraid to speak as he shouts accusingly, because the man there is doing _nothing_. "An inhaler! There was one dropped somewhere around here. You've had to have seen it!"

The man stands there and stares, and stares, and stares and continues to do nothing. His only move is the deepening of the wrinkle between his brows. It's as if he's contemplating.

Scott drops to his hands, wheezes.

Again, Stiles shouts, biting back cursed remarks that are on the tip of is tongue.

Finally and with a quick warning, the man tosses an inhaler to Stiles who fumbles to catch it at first. On its side written in permeant black marker is Scott's full name. The brunette marvels for a quick second before pressing the inhaler to his friend's lips to take a dose. Scott sputters. Coughs. Wheezes. Finally breathes. The other rubs a hand across Scott's back.

He luckily recovers, but Stiles is still ready to speak his mind to the man who stood idly by.

Scott inhales another dose, remaining on his hands and knees as he recollects himself.

Getting to his feet, Stiles has decided that he's going to share the generous amount of _choice words_ he wants to speak. A warm, red emotion fills his stomach like a smoke cloud. It rises up his chest, and up his throat to form the words, and his neck whips in the direction of the lone man—

When Stiles spins back around, the man is no longer there. There hadn't been a sound, a dismissal parting, a ruling of leaves, just now an empty pine forest background. The man had vanished as if he had never been.

The short hairs rise on the back of Stiles neck.

Beside him, Scott rises to stand beside him.

"Jesus Christ that was terrifying," he breaths, and Scott nods in agreement.

The other takes a few more breaths before musing, "I wonder who he was."

"He was—hold on—dude! That was Derek Hale."

"Who?"

"I know you probably don't remember because it didn't make the _big news_. Sometime a couple years ago, his family all burned down in his house."

Scott is shocked. He honestly hadn't remembered.

"Yeah. I remember because my dad was one of the police called to the scene. He told me about it. Apparently the guy's mother was known across town. But as far as I knew, he had left, moved away long ago. Years ago."

"Dang... Wonder what's he doing back..."

Stiles shrugs. "Dunno, but as of right now, that's not important." He wraps an arm around Scott's shoulders, insisting that they leave as soon as possible, and, hopefully, get Scott to a doctor.

But the other coughs, speaks that they have touched too much evidence. "And, besides, we have to cover our tracks."

Stiles pauses. His immediate response is that isn't the important subject at hand. But Scott insists, and Stiles knows it's true. As Scott goes to rest against a tree trunk outside the line of police tape, he instructs Stiles to tear off a pine branch, one with a broom of leaves, and sweep the dirt of their footprints marked by the evidence triangles, to disrupt the dirt with his sneaker before brushing over it with the pine branch like a broom. To do the same with their newer prints. Stiles sweeps, backtracking his steps until reaching the edge and slinking underneath the tape. When he's finished, the neon evidence cones along the grounds no longer mark evidence but random areas of seemingly fallen debris.

Stiles' chest swells—though it isn't entirely in relief. There's a sinking weight there growing.

The mysterious man gone, and the two don't leave a step of evidence in the debris-covered forest ground.

Scott leans on his friend during their walk back to the Jeep. The broken pine branch is brought along with them. Stiles plans to burn it with the lighter in his trunk's glove compartment.

On the drive back, both receive a group text from Hayden. Scott reads it aloud; it's about attending a party at Lydia's this weekend.

* * *

"You were invited to Lydia's house? I'm so surprised and I think a little jealous, actually. Don't quote me on that!"

"It was more of a direct order to be there. But sure, _invited_."

"But how are _we_ going to get in?"

"I told her the only way I would come would be if I could bring a plus-five."

"And she doesn't know it's us? ...She doesn't know it's us, does she?"

"She doesn't need to know. Said she doesn't care who, actually."

"Dang... She must really like you, huh?"

"Maybe. Too bad it's not mutual—too bad for her, I mean. So, I was thinking that it would seem best for all of us to go. It might be a little too suspicious if we all were to gather at someone's house or something right after last night, you know? Go there and we'd look like normal people—unsuspecting people who hadn't gone looking around the woods. By the way, why didn't anyone ever tell me about the _bodies_?!"

"I did. Over the phone before we got you."

"Oh."

"It's also been on the news."

"How long ago?"

"I dunno. Maybe a few months back—"

"I'm not going to remember _a few months back_. And you know I don't watch the news."

"Ah. Well...your choice."

"So...please—please tell me that you're coming?"

"Duh. To go is actually a good idea. We all need to go. Scott and Stiles look like they're about to snap any minute. By the way, _don't_ tell Stiles yet. He's going to _flip_ , and you know it. Remember, you got to be strategic with him when it's about _Lydia_."

Hayden grimaces, wearing a guilty grin. "Oops..."

* * *

The young man sitting at the end of a sofa footstool wears a contemptuous expression, appearing statue-still over a set chessboard, the pieces already moved in the process of a game. His fingers are slender and tawny, pressed against his mouth in thought, calculating his next move. The television is on low volume, a dental commercial on screen. The ends of his long sleeves are slightly damp, drying from a mishap in the kitchen, the used dishes sitting in the sink. The pendulum of the grandfather clock ticks from the short hallway. The young man is the only one in the small, one-story apartment flat. That's why when Isobel MacDougal arrives home much later than expected—at precisely three-thirtyfive if the traffic is good—she has to tread carefully, open the door silently, discreetly, and make it to her bedroom.

The young man is the kind of manufactured pretty that is acquired through photo manipulation or a blessing of genes. His clothes are pressed and he's immaculately groomed, all cotton-curly brown hair and high cheekbones and condescending, angular slanted eyes. His only move is to sip at the tall glass on the coffee table. Beside the chessboard, his phone vibrates—in time as Isobel sneaks passed the threshold, quietly closing the front door behind. She flinches when the lock clicks, waits for signs that the young man inside hears. The apartment remains silent so she slips off her shoes, creeps past the doorway to the living room, and is just about to release a sigh of relief as she meets the end of the hallway that will lead to her bedroom when she hears a loud clearing throat a ways behind her. She freezes. Panics. Her shoulders fall, found out.

The young man, who is  leaning against the open doorway leading into the living room and staring straight at her—closing it quietly. His tall glass and chess game abandoned on the coffee table. His arms are crossed and his expression bored, idly staring at the guilty other's back down the hallway. There's a Flyers game has resumed playing on the flat-screen television. Her heart races, she's panicking, mind searching for an explanation for her absence, and—

And—

Okay.

_Okay._

Isobel is five years younger than he, and is caught redhanded sneaking inside the house. She stumbles. She flails. She blubbers over her words and he doesn't aid her with any slack.

Instead, slanted eyes skim her from head to toe, pointedly pausing at her ribbed cotton knee socks, her newly-bought t-shrirt dress—both suspiciously spotted with dirt and broken dead leaves—and her pearl stud earrings, and her rapidly scribbled Spanish I notes that are gradually sliding out of her open backpack, half-smeared Bic-pen ink on the insides of her forearms.

His gaze, she notices, lingers on her socks' dirtied kneecaps.

"So," he begins. Leaves off, hanging in the air. He's expecting her to finish the sentence.

And under his void expression, she cracks, spills everything out in the open. "Yes, I did go back even though you told me not to, but I _had_ to. _Because_ —because—uh, there were some people snooping around and I had to make sure nothing _was left_. _And_ —I'm—I'm sorry, okay?"

He's staring, judging. Shuffles his shoulder's weight against the painted white doorless frame. "Are you aware that there was another body found? This morning. In the woods again."

At that, she blinks in shock but quickly recovers. "Well, I—I—"

" _And_ that there's a curfew? Isobel, you _know_ you can't be going off on your own like that."

"But didn't you say that I needed to learn on my own? Besides, Alcor had been there. I heard him—"

"Alcor doesn't count."

She does know this.

"And the police are getting suspicious of everyone. It really wasn't a good idea to go. The bodies are just going to keep piling up and if you keep being reckless..." He trails off, shakes his head. 

She sighs, shuffles her book bag onto her other shoulder. She rolls her eyes. "You know that won't happen," she states, firm, more sure of herself.

"Arrogance is the leading cause of self-destruction if you don't watch yourself."

"And I'm _trying_ —"

"But you're not doing it _right_. You're not being smart."

"Ok. It wasn't my fault—last time. It was an accident. I keep telling you that. _Something_ must have went _wrong_ because—I _swear_. I swear I didn't do it—didn't mean to—not this time." Her voice hardens at the end. 

A twisting stab of guilt pierces her gut beneath his stare. It doesn't surprise her, as it hasn't been for the first time.

She holds his stare. "There's too much blood. I don't want to stay."

He nods, agrees. There's a prolonged silence that he doesn't fill. Until, "I know. If it happens again...I'll deal with it." Then his tone softens, his eyes too. "Look, just...for now, find something else to do on free nights. Other than be here, I mean. Go be a normal teenager." He waves his hand in dismissal. Though there is still a null expression to his face, she knows that he's trying to be encouraging; this is him being encouraging and lenient.

She crosses her arms over her lower abdomen. Scoffs. " _Normal_. Here?" It's dry, barely bitter, and almost as void as he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isobel is the kind-of OC in here. But still, the main focus will be the other Teen Wolf characters and Hayden.

**Author's Note:**

> **If this fic is liked enough, I'll likely continue it.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Kudos don't tell much so _please_ let me know your thoughts! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! _Don't_ forget to comment. _Or_ , shoot me a complain and/or critic [_here_](http://aqhrodites.tumblr.com/ask). You can also go there to complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.**


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